


i bleed, red lips you're unbelieveable

by A_Butter_Churner



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Getting Back Together, Inspired by Music, M/M, Post-Break Up, Race is a youtuber ig, Songfic, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins-centric, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Butter_Churner/pseuds/A_Butter_Churner
Summary: It was a broken guitar string, slim and silver and thinning at the end—its tightly wound coil fraying and unraveling. Sometimes when Spot looked at it, he imagined it on the guitar it came from with its owner sitting on the couch next to him, strumming and laughing, setting the guitar down to kiss him on the cheek. It was a fantasy Spot indulged in more than he’d like to admit, and he tried to shut it down and move on, but it creeped back into his brain like a vine. At least thinking about it made it easier to ignore the fact that there was no way it was coming true.
Relationships: Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	i bleed, red lips you're unbelieveable

**Author's Note:**

> This would not be a reality without the amazing @amscraypunk on tumblr (and @amscray_punk here, go check her out- she's amazing <3) and her entertaining my stupididty ;-;
> 
> This is my first Newsies fic, so please be nice! Kudos and comments are always appreciated (they keep me motivated to keep doing what I'm doing)
> 
> This is inspired by the song Hello, Brooklyn! by All Time Low (which is the Sprace Anthem imo) so take a listen to that!

Spot Conlon is sentimental. That much, everyone knew. He was the one to make handwritten, personal thank-you cards scrawled out in the neatest he could manage and place them in people’s mailboxes and he was famous for picking out the best gifts for people, just because he knew them so well. He had keepsakes and photos from everyone who had an impact on his life—a feather from one of Miz Medda’s hats, a marble Hotshot gave him when he left, a little painting of Jack and Davey, and at the center of it all, his favorite.

It was a broken guitar string, slim and silver and thinning at the end—its tightly wound coil fraying and unraveling. Sometimes when Spot looked at it, he imagined it on the guitar it came from with its owner sitting on the couch next to him, strumming and laughing, setting the guitar down to kiss him on the cheek. It was a fantasy Spot indulged in more than he’d like to admit, and he tried to shut it down and move on, but it creeped back into his brain like a vine. At least thinking about it made it easier to ignore the fact that there was no way it was coming true.

Sighing, Spot closes the cabinet with the guitar string. It was stupid, really, how much he still missed Race. He still feels so blind and in love, like the only thing that matters was still waiting for Race to come home— _their_ home—and kissing him before he even made it in the door because he “just couldn’t help it” or karaoke night at Albert’s where their only job was to see how much PDA it would take for their friends to kick them out.

It’s been three years and still his brain can’t stop drifting back to what he knows were the happiest moments of his life. And the fact that he’s still here, surrounded by Race’s friends and family, only speaks to the fact that he’s still stuck.

A notification goes off on his phone and his heart flutters a bit, despite himself.

A community post from Race. He clicks even though he knows he shouldn’t.

There’s a picture of Race there, smiling and running his fingers through his hair. Spot’s fingers tingled with the urge to do the same, to feel those blonde curls in his hand one more time.

Spot scrolls down to the actual post, a grin widening on his face.

_hey y’all! surprise stream tonight <3 there’s a song that I need to sing for someone _

Spot bites his lip, the word ‘someone’ rolling around in his echo chamber of a brain like a marble. Nevertheless, he sets a reminder for the stream and switches off his phone.

So much for moving on.

\--

Racetrack Higgins is stuck. Stuck at home and stuck in the past.

In hindsight, it was a mistake to put his old playlist on. Yeah, it had been two weeks since he’d last met up with Al or Jackie or any of his old friends and yeah, maybe he was feeling homesick because wherever this place was—it wasn’t _home_. But he should have known. He should have known that the Song would play at one point or another and he’d instantly go back—back to late nights on the balcony and soft-and-slightly-hungover morning kisses. And now he’s stuck again, with no way out. Spot fucking Conlon is still in his head and it’s like he never left.

Three years. Three motherfucking years and all it takes is a song to send him back.

It’s like Race _didn’t_ pack up and move to a studio with a few friends from school to make music, knowing he was choosing his future—one that Spot couldn’t be a part of. Like Race _didn’t_ go on date after date to make sure this very thing didn’t happen.

Like Race _didn’t_ work up the courage to call Spot, because “I’m still in the city, we could meet up for lunch!” and “I just want to check in” but hung up early because he didn’t know what he’d do if he heard his voice on the other line.

He doesn’t remember ever falling out of love. It seemed like one moment they were drunk as hell and dancing like all that mattered was being in each other’s arms and the next he was in a car with a few guys he barely knew, driving to an apartment that felt like a whole different country.

Race finds himself drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa, the words of the Song echoing in his brain—an earworm that won’t go away. He sinks back into the chair, heart deflating like a balloon realizing he’s not over it. He’s not over Spot fucking Conlon and it _hurts_ because he should be. Because he’s the one who left so obviously, he was ready. Obviously, he could find someone new and he’d be fucking fine. Only, he didn’t, and he isn’t fucking fine.

The Song is stuck in his head and he’s stuck in his emotions that explode like fireworks inside him.

He decides something, then, and it might be the stupidest thing he’ll ever do but he has to do it. He whips out his phone and almost as a reflex dials Spot’s number, but instead he scrolls and messages his roommates.

_Tony: Gonna need the house today, streaming <3_

He’s met with a few ‘fuck you’s but he ignores them and scrambles for his laptop.

_hey y’all! surprise stream tonight <3 there’s a song that I need to sing for someone_

He types out the words as fast as he can, biting his lip in anticipation. He doesn’t expect Spot to follow his channel, he knows he wouldn’t if the roles were reversed, but he needs someone to see. He needs someone to know that he _can’t_ anymore. He can’t pretend like he didn’t fuck up and that he doesn’t feel anything.

With a sigh, he releases the community post, and prepares for hell.

\--

“Finch, did ya bring the marshmallows?” Spot calls from the kitchen, knowing the teen won’t hear him over the umpteen other people in his apartment. He and Jack could rarely agree on anything apart from the fact that they liked seeing Race thrive, so every time Race streamed, they’d all get together and watch. It was nice. Spot felt like he was part of a family, Race’s family, even if Race isn’t there.

“You’s doin’ okay, Spotty?” Jack punches him in the arm lightly after walking into the kitchen.

Spot offers him a smile, ignoring the use of the nickname that used to be a Race-Only privilege. “Yeah, I’m alright. I’m proud of him, you know?”

Jack grins. “We all are.”

“We’ve queued it up!” someone—probably Elmer—calls from the living room.

“Be right there!”

By the time they’re all settled on the couches (and several of them on the floor), the stream has already started. Race is leaning against a periwinkle wall, that easy smile fitting perfectly on his lips as he drums his fingers on his guitar absentmindedly.

Spot will never get tired of hearing Race’s voice, even if it’s only through a screen. He’s letting himself be lost in the lilts and sways of Race’s words when Katherine shakes his shoulder suddenly, and points to the screen.

“Look!”

“So, um, yeah,” Race says on the TV. “Wherever you are… this is for you.”

He strums the guitar and holy fuck—

It’s _their_ song.

\--

_This city, so pretty_

_Under moonlit skies we’ll be hanging like a cigarette_

Race was nervous as fuck. He hasn’t sung this song in forever and he was worried he was going to screw it up, but now… now the words come easy. He closes his eyes and it’s like singing to Spot—just the two of them—all over again.

_So stunnin’, start runnin’_

_Tonight’s like a knife—would you cut me with your kiss?_

In the back of his mind, Race wonders if Spot is watching him now. If he can hear what Race is so desperately trying to say. At the very least, he hopes Spot knows that Race isn’t gone. That Race is here, he’s here, he’s _here._

\--

_I bleed, red lips you’re unbelievable_

_Can’t miss this chance to take you out_

_And here’s my invitation_

Spot is swimming, everything in underwater. He can barely feel Kath’s hand in his own and Jackie’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, he can’t hear the chatter of the other boys at all. All he can hear is _Race Race Race_ and the Song and it’s all so _much_.

\--

_Hello Brooklyn, Hey LA_

_Take the streets all night 'cause we sleep all day_

_When the world comes crashing down who's ready to party?_

Race feels like he’s screaming, screaming all alone in the studio to a camera who can’t say anything back, but it feels something like home for the first time in a long time. The song is roaring in his ears and he’s finally succumbed.

_Hello Brooklyn, Hey LA_

_Coast to coast I'll take you down in flames_

_Let the good times roll we can let go_

_Everybody knows there's a party at the end of the world_

\--

_Kiss it all goodbye_

It’s killing Spot to keep watching at this point. To see the tears bud in Race’s eyes (those are tears, right?) and the fluorescent light cast shadows on his wire-gold hair and not being able to run his own fingers through it.

_Tonight you’ve never been more alive_

_You’re so alive_

\--

_You’re not afraid to die_

Race is afraid. Afraid that Spot will see this—or worse, _Jack_ —and all he’ll get is a lecture and a broken heart. If that happens, he knows he’ll break.

_I can see it in your eyes_

_Your eyes…_

\--

Spot lets the final chorus finish, feeling each note thump in his chest aligned with his heartbeat. The song quiets, Race ends the stream, and everyone is staring a Spot as if to say, “well Conlon, your move.”

“Hey, Jack?” he manages a whisper. “Gimme your phone.”

\--

Race sighs, leaning back against the wall to let the tears fall. He thought it would feel good to get it out there, but it just hurts. It aches so much and he doesn’t know _why._

Suddenly, his phone rings. He’s hopeful for a second until he sees Jack’s name on the caller ID.

Gulping, he picks up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Racer.”

Shit.

That was not Jack.

“S-spotty?” he whispers. “That you?”

A laugh. An earthy, warm laugh that sends something pooling to Race’s toes. “It’s me, Racer. I’m right here.”

**Author's Note:**

> come hang on tumblr @the-butter-churner


End file.
